Empty Spaces by Fuin  

All Elves, after re-embodiment, set out on foot from the Halls of Mandos in the furthest West of Arda, through the tranquil and sweet gardens of Irmo and Estë in Lórien, through Yavanna's thriving forests, and across wide plains under blue skies caressed by the soft breeze Manwë sends from Taniquetil, back to the cities and villages of the living. It is said that on this journey they each may find themselves again in feeling the Music of Arda hum in the ground beneath their feet and ring in the air they breathe, so that their ancient fëa and new hröa be one again. Only then they will meet their families and loved ones, rejoining life as it is meant to be, connected not only to oneself but to the greater construct of relationships and trades, of intermingling thoughts and songs, and of deeds small and great—although great is a contestable word to describe any possible deed under the Valar's benevolent eyes.

It is an unspoken law, too, that every wed Elf stay with their spouse for a yén or such, if said spouse had already left the Halls, found a way to Aman that did not lead through death, or never left its jewel-strewn shores. After all, the agreement to mend the bond of two fëar and two hröar is required to even be allowed to leave Mandos' Halls—and who would not want to reunite with one's long-sundered love?

Still unsure whether he had found himself on his journey, or, taking note of all the differences to Beleriand, had just become more aware of what was lost, Fingon came to the house of Nimveril, his dear wife. She welcomed him with a smile and a kiss, and then, after making sure his fëa was safely back amongst the living, she asked for their union of marriage to be dissolved.

Fingon was neither surprised nor offended that she bore this thought, for she had always had her own life, and her own love she could not have wed under the Eldar's laws and customs. What was surprising was that she would utter such blasphemy aloud—yet she did, and they went hand in hand to the Valar's court to ask for their marriage to be ended.

Fingon bit his tongue and said naught about his own desires. He whom he had once loved was doomed by the Valar already. Whether or not Fingon would ever forgive him for the blood shed and lives ended, he would not say Maedhros' name in his absence and accuse him once more of the violation of the Valar's perfect order. Perhaps, they would not have denied Nimveril the request if he had spoken. He would never know.

He followed her back to her house, and, though it cannot be said that there was no love at all between them, stayed not for a yén, but for a few weeks only; until he decided that he had intruded enough on her life, and set out onto another journey, still feeling detached from this new life.

~~~

On the Square of the High Kings in Tirion, in front of the stairs leading up to the palace, Fingon looks upon his father's face for the first time—it is cast in bronze. It is quite unexpected to see the monument here, where a flowerbed and a small fountain had been many centuries ago. For no good reason at all, Fingon has not expected Tirion to have changed much since he had left it behind to find joy; or freedom, at the least in Beleriand beyond the sea. He has, of course, noticed other changes along the way, but of none has he been aware as much as of the monument raised in his father's honour.

Bronze on a marble pedestal, the most proud and valiant of the Elven-kings of old is depicted riding into battle, his bearing proud and determined, Ringil drawn in defiance of the Foe. At night, under moon and stars, the bronze sword gleams in an ice-blue light, as had its precursor, made of steel and mithril, in Beleriand. In the same light shine Fingolfin's eyes and those of Rochallor, his steed.

It brings good luck and success, or so they say, to touch Rochallor's raised front hoof. Some even climb the pedestal or lift up their young children to touch the horse's nose—apparently, a nose brings even greater luck and success than a hoof. The bronze has still kept its original warm colour where it is frequently touched, while the rest of the monument has taken on a green hue.

Wondering at the irony, Fingon touches Rochallor's bronze hoof and asks himself what kind of luck and success are to be expected from this at all. What he sees before him raised skywards on a pedestal resembles his memory of that fateful day only superficially. Wrath and grief had radiated from his father's bearing when Fingon had gripped Rochallor's reins in a vain attempt to stop him, when he had begged his father to see reason, or to let Fingon go in his stead.

Fingon remembers seeing the white in the horse's eye when Fingolfin had nevertheless spurred Rochallor on without even an answer, without words of farewell, and Fingon knew then that he would be left with the inheritance of a ruined kingdom, riddled with shadows of madness and despair.

Knowing he would not return, Fingolfin had been successful at least by inspiring great and valiant deeds in the years thereafter—and yet, unnumbered tears had been shed in the end.

Is this the kind of success Tirion's citizens ask for these days, in Valinor where they live in peace and bliss, the shadows almost forgotten? Do they ask for success when they plant an apple tree just to find all the apples rotten inside by the time of the first harvest? Do they ask for luck when they court a lover just to have that relationship rejected by their families? Would it not be better then, not to ask at all?

Fingon wanders amongst the bronze statues of his relatives on the Square for a while, grateful for the time this grants him to ponder on what things to tell them, and on what is better left untold; which questions to ask and which questions he would rather not know the answer to.

All of them have returned to life already, save Finwë whose bronze image stands at the far end of the Square, opposite the palace doors. He is facing the main road that leads to the beating heart of the city with its markets and universities and theatres, and then further on, until the road splits up outside the city gates to lead north to Taniquetil where Manwë and Varda still reign, and east, to Alqualondë and Tol Eressëa. The rising sun catches in the gem-carved fruits of Laurelin to Finwë's lleft, and the rising moon in Telperion's flowers made of glass. He looks back, Fingon thinks, to whence he came, and to where so many of his descendants went after Finwë had found his own ruin in the promised bliss. Would he have been proud of them? Had he lived, would he have followed Fëanor to reclaim the Silmarils in Beleriand, as he had followed him to Formenos?

Fingon passes the statue of Turgon, the fountains surrounding him reflect the moonlight in a thousand diamond-sparks. Through all the distance and all their disagreements, love had always been strong between them, until the end. But as Turgon had called him a fool for climbing the Thangorodrim to rescue a friend, Fingon is inclined to call him the same for not doing so; and this is one disagreement he is not ready to discuss yet.

At the entrance to the park adjacent to the Square, he finds the bronze image of Ereinion Gil-galad, the son he had known for such a short time that he hardly believes those memories are real. There is ample time now to establish that connection they were not meant to have in Beleriand, or some kind of connection at least—but first, Fingon feels he needs to finally connect with himself in full, to build a life that stands on its own foundation, he cannot rely on a son who is a stranger to him to help Fingon find the place where he belongs in this unknown Age.

There is no monument on the Square of either Fëanor or Maedhros. It is unsurprising, for neither was crowned High King, even though they had held a claim to the title. Fingon envisions Maedhros' statue in the empty places on the Square, Noldorin and Telerin travellers alike strolling beneath his bronze feet, tsk-ing and shaking their heads, but still touching the stump of his right hand for good fortune. Fingon decides it is for the better that no monument was built in Maedhros' memory; that in all of Tirion there seems to be no indication that he had ever lived, ever existed at all.

But he did live, and he does exist still, somewhere in the dark.

Fingon abandoned his love for him during his time in the Halls; he buried it in the depths of Menegroth, drowned it in Sirion's bloodied waters, and burned it in the fires at the heart of the world—and yet, he finds himself at odds with Tirion's indifference. At least some longing is left for brighter days of old which are now preserved only in the memories resurfacing unbidden in the empty spaces of the Blessed Land's lush landscapes and lively cities.

Fingon enters the park next to the Square. The scent of hyacinths fills the air as he walks on a path alternating between ancient trees and flowerbeds overflowing with spring-bright blossoms. In a shaded grove of maple trees, Fingon finds his own monument, head raised proud and his eyes determinedly set on something unknown in the distance. One hand rests on the hilt of his sword; in the other, he carries a harp with golden strings. The statue is not made of bronze, but entirely of finest marble, and the pedestal is carved in the likeness of eagle wings.

Fingon considers the monument for a long time, and thinks of Nerdanel. Is a mother's love crushed underneath blood and darkness as should be a lover's? Would it make a difference, if it were not so?

The answers, he thinks, might fill in some of the empty spaces; he might find at last a piece of himself in it—or come to terms with what is lost inevitably.

He leaves his bronze relatives behind whom he will meet in the flesh only at a later time, and follows the main road out of the city again to the quiet place Nerdanel built for herself.

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